


instinct

by crimsonxflowers



Series: kinktober 2017 [4]
Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Don't Judge Me, Kinktober 2017, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: Meyer’s offer to sit in on the meet with Masseria really should've tipped them both off—Meyer’s never that rash unless he's on the edge of a rut, but both their nerves were too shot for it to really click for either of them.





	instinct

**Author's Note:**

> written for kinktober 2017, for the day 19 prompt "scent kink/olfactophilia." it’s alpha/beta/omega au because what the fuck else was i supposed to do with that prompt. if this is not your thing, no judgement, but just don't read it. 
> 
> contains the typical tropes you should probably expect for this particular brand of au, some of which [i.e. knotting, scent-marking] are made explicit in this fic, and some which are glossed over. in my interpretation of this au, ruts and heats are both naturally occurring in alphas and omegas respectively, with ruts occurring on a semi-annual basis and heats happening more frequently. that said, especially in bonded pairs, one partner's natural heat or rut can trigger a less-intense-than-natural version of the other partner's rut or heat outside the second partner's cycle. hopefully that makes sense. onto the smut.

Meyer’s offer to sit in on the meet with Masseria really should've tipped them both off—Meyer’s never that rash unless he's on the edge of a rut, but both their nerves were too shot for it to really click for either of them.

It's about two seconds after Charlie’s in the door that it's _real_ clear what’s going on, considering Meyer’s plastered to his front as soon as Charlie gets his jacket off. His back hits the door with a dull thump, and Meyer’s arms are locked around his waist, face pressed hard to Charlie’s neck. Not a word about business. Not a word about _anything_ , just the more-vibration-than-sound rumble coming from Meyer’s chest as Charlie’s scent hits him, and the heavy smell of _anger_ and _rut_ rolling off Meyer in turn.

Charlie brushes his fingers through Meyer’s hair, unsticking the strands from where they’ve been slicked back. It’s meant to be soothing, because what omega doesn’t want to comfort their alpha when they’re worked up, but it also makes Meyer’s scent that much stronger, and Charlie can’t resist burying his nose in his hair for a few seconds, breathing deep. The scent is all it takes for heat to start building in Charlie’s gut. “Hey, Mey,” he says, quiet and tentative. He doesn’t know how long Meyer’s ignored this one building, but the longer he waits, the worse it gets.

Meyer hums against Charlie’s shoulder, tilting his head to press his jaw against Charlie’s collarbone. “...Hi,” he responds, absent-mindedly, a few seconds later, and—okay, not quite in non-verbal territory yet, means he didn't push it down for _weeks_ like he has before. Charlie can work with that. He keeps dragging his fingers through Meyer’s hair, stirring up more of his scent as he does, and reaches up with his other hand to tug his tie loose without unsettling Meyer’s hold on him. The rumble in Meyer’s chest kicks up a few notches, and he shifts to press his face harder against the now-exposed skin of Charlie’s throat.

“How—how did it go?” Meyer forces out after a few seconds, shallow breaths an obvious attempt at keeping his impulses under control so they can go over Masseria’s demands.

Charlie just shakes his head, free hand trailing down Meyer’s side and pressing between waistcoat and slacks—not quite skin against skin, but Meyer’s shirt is thin in deference to the season, and Charlie can feel the warmth of him through the cloth just fine. “S’fine, Meyer, we don't gotta talk shop right now,” he says, a little teasing lacing his tone.

“It _isn't_ fine,” Meyer snarls, pressing up on his toes to rub his jawbone against the ridge of Charlie’s shoulder. “He fucking _summoned_ you, like he thinks he’s—” he breaks off, another growl saying everything for him. “You smell like John’s,” Meyer bites out, another snarl curling around his words even though his voice shakes with the effort to restrain it. He inhales, sharp, then shifts under Charlie’s chin to do the same against Charlie’s other shoulder—and even as the knowledge he's being marked makes warmth settle heavy in his chest, Charlie silently thanks whoever’s listening for silk shirts, otherwise Meyer’d rub his jawline raw. Meyer breathes in again, slower this time, but doesn't pick his head up off Charlie's shoulder right away. “Too much fucking garlic.”

That's enough to startle a barking laugh out of Charlie—if Meyer’s together enough to crack jokes, he's got it under control for a little while longer. He slides his hand back up, til he's cupping Meyer’s jaw and can tilt his head up to catch his eye. “You oughta be used to that by now,” he says, through a grin, until Meyer turns his head and wraps a hand around one wrist. He presses his face into Charlie’s palm, inhaling and setting his shoulders, and Charlie winces. He'd washed his hands before coming up to the suite, mostly because his skin’d been crawling since he walked out of the joint, but it's not exactly a shock that the scent of another alpha lingers. It's faint, but obviously enough for Meyer to pick up on.

“I'm going to cut his fingers off,” Meyer says, each word enunciated sharply but voice a low growl against Charlie’s palm. “One by one. And then I'm going to feed them to him.”

And heat’s been simmering in Charlie’s belly since his alpha pressed up against him smelling like rut, but of course _that’s_ what makes it flare. He swallows, hard, and clutches Meyer tighter against him. “Y’want I should wash it off?” Getting his clothes off will do a lot to get rid of the scents still clinging to the fabric, but that's not quite all Charlie’s angling for, now that the heat’s inches away from burning in his veins.

Judging by the way Meyer growls again, he's well aware. Charlie grins and stands up straight, the motion forcing Meyer to step back a pace, and from there it’s short work to get undressed and in the suite’s bathtub.

Both of them, obviously. One look at Meyer’s face makes it real clear Charlie’s not getting more than arm’s length from him for a while. Not that Charlie minds, with the way Meyer won't stop touching him. He runs the water a few degrees cooler than usual, while he’s still running more on sense than instinct. Barely.

It's a little awkward settling into the water and rinsing off, especially when all he can smell is Meyer, when it's getting harder and harder to ignore how much he wants his alpha to fill him up, and all that makes it bearable is how Meyer stays pressed along his back, chin hooked over Charlie’s shoulder. Every couple of minutes he presses the edge of his jaw to whatever bare skin he can reach—Charlie’s shoulderblade, the side of his neck, the ridges of his spine, spreading his scent as far as he can across Charlie’s skin. Every couple of minutes his hips twitch forward and presses his cock against Charlie’s ass, and when Charlie finally breaks and lets out a needy whine, he can feel Meyer grin against his skin.

“Should've come with you,” he murmurs, punctuating the statement with a sucking kiss to Charlie’s shoulder. “He'd never _dare_ if I’d been right there.”

Charlie barely hears it, too wrapped up in the way Meyer’s hand is almost lazily sliding along his hip. When the words finally register, he tips his head back on Meyer’s shoulder, sliding even further down in the water as his thighs fall open. “Wasn't nothin’ bein’ the boss couldn't excuse,” he says blearily, bitterness seeping through the haze of the heat whether he likes it or not. Joe hides behind it a lot, being the head of the biggest Sicilian gang downtown, plays it off like his hand on Charlie’s is paternal. None of that stops Charlie wanting to claw his skin off every time it happens, every time the barest trace of his scent clings to Charlie’s skin.

“Not my boss,” Meyer says immediately, fingers curling possessively around Charlie’s hip. He presses his teeth against Charlie’s shoulder, not biting yet. “Not your boss either.” His hand moves again, and Charlie lifts his hips with a whine as Meyer’s hand slides down, wrist brushing against Charlie’s dick as he slides two fingers inside him. “ _Not_ your alpha.”

Meyer’s fingers press inside him easy, a filthy slide deeper and deeper with every twist of Meyer’s wrist. All Charlie can do is moan, legs spread wide as Meyer fucks him with his fingers, brushing over that spot inside him over and over. “Fuck, Meyer,” Charlie pants, and all he can smell is Meyer, all he can feel is Meyer’s cock against his back, Meyer’s fingers inside him. Not enough, not enough, he moans as Meyer thrusts a third finger inside, but it's not enough, he needs more.

“Up,” Meyer murmurs against his ear, and when Charlie’s only response is a confused noise, Meyer inches away and leaves Charlie scrambling, unmoored. “ _Up_ , Charlie, want you in bed,” Meyer growls, and— _yes_ , bed, he didn’t make a nest, didn’t know this was coming, but the plushness of the pillows and the silk of the sheets are so lush that it _feels_ like one anyway and—it will smell like Meyer. He wants to smell like Meyer. So he gets up, tugging Meyer to his feet as well because he’s supposed to be the collected one, it’s not even his heat, but Meyer smells _so good_ and Charlie wants him inside _so bad_.

A satisfied noise tears itself out of Meyer’s throat as the two of them finally hit the sheets. Charlie feels the heat ebb minutely as he’s pressed into the mattress, surrounded by their scents. But it flares back up to an impenetrable haze as soon as Meyer crowds against him, rolling their hips together and pressing rough kisses to Charlie’s lips, and it’s good, it’s _great_ , all he can smell is Meyer, all he can taste is his alpha, but he locks his thighs around Meyer’s hips and arches against him. He needs _more_ , he needs Meyer to take him, he needs Meyer filling him up, he needs to know he’s _Meyer’s—_

Meyer hums against his skin, and distantly Charlie realizes he’s been saying everything in his head out loud. “Mine,” Meyer growls, nipping at Charlie’s jaw, and Charlie tilts his head back helplessly and moans in response. “Say it, wanna hear you say it.”

“M’yours, all yours, please, need you to fuck me,” he whines, and the way Meyer shudders against him and presses his hips harder against Charlie’s makes him moan, anticipation burning in his veins.

“Flip,” Meyer pants, and once the command makes it through the haze, Charlie scrambles as Meyer inches back just far enough for Charlie to turn over, legs spread and ass in the air. He barely gets his knees under him before Meyer presses inside him, so slow it’s like _torture_. He whines, loud and high in his chest, and shifts his hips back into the heavy slide of Meyer’s cock. Meyer presses a palm to his spine, slides it up til his fingers are wrapped around the nape of Charlie’s neck, and all the tension in Charlie’s arms and shoulders evaporates and he goes limp under Meyer’s hand. He moans into the sheets as he presses his face harder against the mattress, back arching as Meyer presses forward.

It feels like forever before Meyer bottoms out, hips pressed flush against Charlie’s ass. It's so much, he's so full, he can barely breathe for the heat blazing through him, and Meyer _stops moving_. Charlie squirms desperately, pressing back against his alpha, needy whines spilling out of him with every shift. Meyer leans forward, pressing his lips to Charlie’s shoulder, the threat of a bite clear in the way he sets his teeth to Charlie’s skin. His hand covers Charlie’s where it’s twisted in the sheet beside his head, and Charlie trades fabric for skin, twining their fingers together and clinging tight as Meyer _finally_ starts to move.

He keeps it slow, _somehow_ , measured thrusts pressing deeper and deeper with each stroke, and Charlie whines at every move. Meyer’s fingertips edge up to brush through Charlie’s hairline, and he presses a biting kiss to Charlie’s shoulder. “You're gonna kill him, Charlie,” he grits out, and Charlie freezes, a flare of vicious want erupting in his chest. “Joe the Boss, dead thanks to an omega. _My_ omega.” Meyer punctuates the words with a sharp thrust, and Charlie doesn't know whether the words or the movement are more responsible for the groan that tears from his chest. He _wants_ it, he can't breathe for how much he wants it. Meyer will give it to him. Meyer knows what he needs, Meyer fills him up so perfect, Meyer knows where he _belongs_ —

“Please,” he pants against the sheets, and Meyer nips at his skin again, hips setting a punishing pace. “Want it, Meyer, wanna kill him, want you, please—”

“Gonna take you in that fucking dive after he's dead,” Meyer growls, sliding his palm down Charlie’s side and past his stomach to stroke his cock as he thrusts into him. “Bend you right over his table, fuck you so good no one’ll scent anything but you there ever again.” Charlie can feel his knot, swelling inside his hole and stretching him until he can barely stand it. Meyer’s thrusts get shorter but no less rough for it, and Charlie moans, pressing back hard against the swelling inside him.

He whimpers, the stretch and slide of Meyer’s cock inside him riding the edge of too-much in the best way possible. On top of that, the thought of _ruining_ the place Joe holds court—staining it with his scent and Meyer’s, proving once and for all who Charlie belongs to—it burns in Charlie’s chest. He moans wordlessly, desperate, and when Meyer finally, _finally_ sinks his teeth into the crook of his neck he sobs into the sheets, muscles clenching in waves around Meyer’s knot as he comes.

Meyer groans against his skin, hips locked tight against Charlie’s as his cock pulses, orgasm drawn out of him by the rippling of Charlie’s body. Every involuntary twitch of his hips forward grinds his knot over Charlie’s prostate and sends aftershocks of pleasure up his spine. The trembling in Charlie’s thighs builds too much to ignore, and Meyer’s weight bears down on him til he's flat against the mattress.

Meyer brushes a hand through Charlie’s sweat-stuck hair as they pant, catching their breath until Meyer can slip out of him—Charlie can't stop the disappointed noise he makes at the emptiness left behind—and he rolls away from the mess underneath him to curl up with Meyer at the head of the bed. They’ll take care of it later. Right now Meyer blinks at him slowly, curling one hand around Charlie’s hip and tracing the mark on Charlie’s neck with the other. Concern flickers faintly in his expression, but he does a shit job hiding how pleased he is with the lingering bite mark. The feeling’s mutual. Charlie stretches, almost purring with the attention, and presses up against Meyer to steal an uncoordinated kiss and then tuck his face against his throat.

“Better?” he says against Meyer’s skin, resting his hand on Meyer’s side and resisting the urge to yawn.

Meyer hums quiet agreement, sounding just as drained as Charlie feels, and presses his face to Charlie’s hair. “Thought it was further out this year,” he responds quietly, faint embarrassment over losing control threading his voice, and Charlie snorts. Like he minds coming home to Meyer all worked up and possessive. Especially not after the afternoon he's had.

Meyer still smells like rut where Charlie's face is tucked against his skin, and an answering spark of heat races up Charlie’s spine thinking about the next day or two as they both drift off. They’ll have to go over the meet later, after both their heads are clear, but Charlie just presses closer to Meyer for now, a sated sigh escaping him as Meyer’s arm settles heavy over his side.

**Author's Note:**

> i live for comments, or come talk to me about gangsters in love on [tumblr!](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/)


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